


for tonight you're only here to know

by darkavenger



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Dark, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: Daken and Bullseye kidnap Henry and torture him, filming it for their own amusement and to taunt Frank. Frank finds Henry, but not in time to stop them from having their fun. Frank's out of practice at looking after people, and Henry's not used to people trying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this fic contains pretty explicit sexual assault, humiliation, physical abuse, and mental manipulation. The second half of this fic deals with the aftermath of this handled in some not particularly healthy ways. There are references to Henry's childhood and the abuse he experienced. The age difference between Frank and Henry is mentioned, although it is not a big part of this fic. If any of these things are likely to trigger you, please do not read.
> 
> Title taken from The Distillers' song of the same name.

“ What's the deal with the kid?”

Henry blinks behind the blindfold, turning his head in the direction of the voice. It’s a useless gesture; the blindfold is knotted firmly enough that there’s no hope of it slipping. Gagged, bound, and blindfolded, there’s little he can do when he feels hands on him, tilting his head up.

“ Don’t you recognise him?”

A beat.

“ Shit, is that -?”

Another set of hands, rough, grasping his chin, pushing his head painfully back. “That’s Castle’s boy.” Angry, but with an undercurrent of dark excitement that sets Henry shivering, helpless and afraid. “Are you out of your fucking mind, mutant?”

“ What’s the matter, afraid?” The first voice teases.

“ Fuck off,” the second voice growls, grip on Henry’s face tightening. “This is fucking stupid. Kid’s probably got a tracking device planted on him. Hell, knowing Castle, he probably set this whole thing up.”

“ You think he’d be willing to sacrifice this boy just to hunt us down? I thought he was a man of honour.”

A bark of laughter, short and ugly. “Yeah right. Castle’s as cold-blooded as they come. He’s a soldier, he’s used to casualties.”

Henry tries not to flinch at that, to tell himself it’s not true, to not remember Frank warning him away. “ _ People around me tend to wind up dead, kid.”  _ Fuck, time to become another statistic.

“ Well, maybe we should put Castle to the test, see if there is a heart under all that Kevlar.”

“ What are you suggesting, bastard?”

The blindfold is pulled down, leaving Henry blinking in the sudden brightness. Tears swim in his vision, blurring the two faces staring down at him. He recognises them anyway, though he’d known from the moment he heard their voices. Bullseye and Daken. Fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling tears slip down his cheeks. Fuck, he’s so dead.

“ I thought we could have some fun with him.” Another hand on his face, fingers trailing down his cheek, thumb pressing against his bottom lip.

Henry makes a muffled noise of protest, eyes snapping open. He suddenly processes the realisation that there’s a whole list of things that can be done to him before they kill him. He jerks his head back, away, breath suddenly coming too quick. Daken smirks down at him and he feels like he can’t breathe, like the gag’s cutting off all his air.

Bullseye snorts, disgusted. “Deviant.”

“ Oh, like you’re not.”

“ I like my jailbait to have tits.”

“ Lucky for you, I’m not as picky.” Daken tosses Bullseye something compact and metallic. The marksman catches it automatically, then looks at it.

“ A camera? You freak.” Bullseye’s flat tone can’t disguise the sick fascination in his gaze though.

Daken smiles, still staring down into Henry’s terrified eyes. His manicured hands still grip Henry’s chin, holding him still. “I’ve always wanted to make a movie.”

Instinctively, Henry tries to get away, wrenching his head from Daken’s grasp. Hobbled and stiff from where he’s been knelt, he falls onto his side and flails, unable to right himself with his arms tied firmly behind his back.

Daken watches him for a moment, before leaning down and hauling him upright with easy, inhuman strength. Henry tries to fight back, in his limited capacity, but Daken just holds him in place until he tires himself out, slumping over, back on his knees. He’s aware, dimly, of the little red light of the camera, recording his humiliation.

“ Will you fucking get on with it?” Bullseye grouses, shifting his weight.

“ Patience,” Daken chides, squatting down so he’s almost level with Henry. “I like to take my time.”

“ Well, I don’t like wasting mine, so hurry it up, princess.”

Daken catches Henry’s eyes. “So bossy,” he says, in an affable tone. “Still, maybe he’s right. What do you think?” There’s a _snk_ of sound, and then Daken’s leaning over to cut through through the gag and pull the fabric from Henry’s mouth. “Shall we skip the foreplay?”

“Get on with it,” Henry says, voice shaking with false bravado.

“I guess you’re used to it. Is Frank an inconsiderate lover?”

“We’re not like that,” Henry grits out, cheeks flushing red despite himself, and damn if it isn’t stupid to be this embarrassed when he’s probably about to die.

Daken laughs, like this is all so amusing to him. “You don’t have to be shy. You can tell us all about it. What is it? Can the old man not get it up?”

Henry glares, but presses his lips together, doesn’t give Daken anything else. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” Daken strokes his cheek with soft, manicured fingers.

Henry shudders at the lie, but doesn’t respond verbally. Daken’s toying with him. Henry doesn’t want to play.

“ Isn’t there anything you want to say?” Daken prods. “Any last messages?

Unwillingly, Henry looks at the camera, imagines Frank watching this. He straightens his shoulders, hisses, “Fuck you,” and spits in Daken’s face.

For a split second, the defiance is worth it. He watches the glob of spittle land on Daken’s face, watches the way the man flinches back a second before catching himself, the carefully controlled anger that sparks in those dead, cold eyes.

Bullseye howls with laughter. “Kid’s got balls after all!”

Then Daken backhands him round the face.

He’s knocked to the ground again. The hit makes his head spin and he tastes blood where his teeth cut into cheek.

This time he doesn’t bother trying to sit up, just lies on the ground and watches as Daken wipes the spit off his face with apparent calm, then reaches for Henry. He’s pulled back upright.

“ Don’t do that again.” Daken says.

_Or what?_ Henry thinks, cynically. It’s pretty obvious they’re already planning on torturing him and raping him before they kill him, he’s not sure what else they can threaten him with. “I said, fuck you.”

He hopes his defiance makes this a little easier on Frank.

Daken slaps him again, hard enough to snap his head round, but not hard enough to knock him down this time. “And here I thought you were meant to be some kind of genius.”

Daken smacks him around a little more; never enough to knock him over again, but enough to rock him back with the force. He feels his face swell like bruised fruit, tastes the copper tang of blood in his mouth. The hits aren't enough to offer the respite of unconsciousness, just enough to keep his head spinning and ears ringing, keep him off-balance and dizzy. As soon as he adjusts, the blows stop. He watches through lowered lashes as the faint bruising and scrapes on Daken's knuckles melt away, leaving behind only perfect, unblemished skin. Daken pulls out a handkerchief and wipes a streak of Henry's blood off the back of his palm. No blood on those hands, Henry thinks inanely.

Daken’s hands are on him again, strong and impersonal. One hand holds his chin in tight vise of a grip, the other presses at his mouth. “Open up.”

Henry clamps his mouth shut, until Daken squeezes his jaw open, slides two fingers into his mouth. A smile curls the corner of the man’s mouth, like paper catching fire. “That’s a good boy,” he teases. “Now suck.”

Henry bites down, hard. He feels bone beneath his teeth, tastes blood. Daken snarls and tries to rip his hand away but Henry won’t let go. Daken still has one free hand though, and he grabs Henry by the neck and squeezes. He can’t choke Henry that effectively with one hand, but after a minute or so Henry goes dizzy, jaw slackening.

Daken yanks his hand back.

Henry curls over himself and rasps in air, tries to let himself be swept under the blackness that crowds the edges of his vision.

He becomes aware that Bullseye’s snickering. “You should try to stick your dick in next.”

Henry forces himself to sit up. “I wouldn’t.” He hates that his voice is hoarse, shaky. He hopes his defiance sounds less empty on camera.

Daken glares at him, smug mask cracking for a second.

Henry glares back.

A thoughtful look crosses Daken’s face. “You know, I can make you.”

Henry shudders. “No shit, but I’m not gonna just roll over and let you fuck me.”

Daken smiles then, dark and slow. “I could make you do that too, you know.” His smile twists. “I could make you beg for it.”

“ No fuckin’ way, man,” Henry shakes his head, emphatic. “I don’t care if you beat me, cut me up, whatever.” It’s not like he’s never been tortured before; he’s got the scars and badly healed broken bones to show for it.

“ See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Daken says, still smiling. “I can make you want me. I can make anyone want me. Isn’t that right, Lester?”

Despite himself, Henry looks.

Bullseye’s not laughing now. He glowers at the mutant. “You’re a sick freak of nature,” he growls, then reluctantly. “It’s not real… it’s all chemicals and mind tricks.”

“ But it feels real, doesn’t it?"

Bullseye doesn’t respond, which is answer enough.

Henry feels a sick, slow panic start to bubble up. This whole time he’s been almost numb. It’s not that he wasn’t scared before, because shit, of course he was, but he thought he’d known what to expect. There’s no way to keep your dignity when you’re being beaten to a pulp and raped on camera, and he’d known that he was going to scream, and sob, and beg for mercy. The possibility of begging for any other reason, of not fighting it every step of the way.

He retches. Nothing comes up, but tears sting at his eyes.

“ Shush,” Daken strokes his face with a cruelly gentle touch. “Relax. You’ll enjoy yourself.”

Henry shudders and tries to pull away, but Daken’s holding him in place and he’s leaning in and then his mouth is on Henry’s.

For a minute he feels nothing but revulsion, and he thinks maybe this isn’t going to work, and then he feels it start to hit.

Daken deepens the kiss and he should pull away, should bite at the tongue in his mouth, licking along his teeth, but instead he leans into it a little, let’s it happen. There’s a strange mix of arousal and shame that blend together. His body responds even as his mind screams. Daken’s kissing his neck, wet and open-mouthed, and Henry lets out a groan that’s half sob.

Distantly he’s aware of Bullseye and the camera, and for a second the shame spikes.

“ No…” he tries to pull away, but Daken just kisses him on the mouth again, sloppy and hot and wet, and he’s pulled back under.

Time passes, slow and heavy as treacle. Hands ghost over his body, touching him, caressing him. He pants, gasps, twitches. “Please,” he begs, but he doesn’t know what for.

Daken presses him down into the cold concrete, and there’s another  _ snk  _ as his claws come out. For a minute, the fear breaches the spell Daken’s cast over him, and he has a moment where he’s grateful that Daken’s switching back to torture, but then the mutant only uses his claws to slice through the knots of Henry’s restraints.

Henry hisses; pain prickles as circulation rushes back to his limbs. He thinks about trying to run or fight but then Daken touches him and Henry loses himself again.

The specifics are lost in a haze. Daken’s touch feels hot, the only thing to burn through the fog. Henry is distantly ashamed of the sounds he makes; soft little cries and desperate pants. If he could, he’d be embarrassed of the way he writhes under Daken, the way his hips cant up needily. Daken is pulling his shirt off, pulling down his jeans and his boxers till they’re tangled by his ankles and he’s trying to spread his legs wider.

“ You going to fuck him or what?”

Henry’s not too far gone to feel a prickle of shame. He’d forgotten about Bullseye, about the camera.

“ I don’t know.” Daken runs a hand down Henry’s side, curling lightly over his hip. Henry moans, tries to rock up into Daken, but the same hand holds him down. “I don’t think he deserves that.”

“ Please,” Henry feels the word fall from his lips.

“ Please, what?” Daken says, teasing.

“ Please… fuck me,” Henry says, brokenly.

“ I don’t know, I think you need to beg a little prettier than that. Show me how good you can beg.”

They film him begging and crawling, and Daken doesn't lay a hand on him as he tells him to get himself off. Henry’s shaky and tired, and the pheromones are wearing off, but he’s too miserable to fight back as Daken holds a cup to his lips. The drink is drugged, but falling into a blank oblivion sounds preferable to consciousness right now.

When he wakes up, it’s dark and cold and he’s alone. Henry tries to move, only to discover he’s been tied up again. He blinks his eyes; no blindfold so wherever he is really is that dark. No gag, either. He calls for help. His voice is cracked, almost unrecognisable even to himself. After a couple of minutes he stops. No one is coming, and his throat is dry.

Time passes. He shivers, then after a while stops shivering. His bones ache with cold. His head spins and thoughts fragment.

Sound. His starved senses leap at it; the faintest noise. It grows louder, recognisable. Boot against concrete. Footsteps, drawing closer.

“ Help,” he rasps. His voice is barely above a whisper.

Noise; metallic, rusted, squealing, and then light.

Henry blinks through watering eyes.

A broad shouldered figure, silhouetted in the doorway. The figure pauses for a moment, then strides towards him.

Henry panics, flips out, tries to roll away.

“ Hey.” Familiar tone, authoritative and low. “Stop that.”

Henry doesn’t respond.

A gloved hand lands on his bare arm, presses down.

The contact grounds him. He stills, chest heaving silently. He doesn’t look up at Frank as the man cuts him loose. He lets Frank pull him upright passively, touch him with brisk, impersonal hands.

“ You're too cold.”

He's passed clothes – a t-shirt, pants and boxers. He stares at them blankly for a second before starting to pull them on slowly, fumbling with cold-numbed hands. Even dressed, he's still frozen to the core. Frank seems to notice that, and after a second of hesitation, pulls his own jacket off.

It's too big, and the material is rough, but it's warm from Frank's body. Henry starts to shiver again. Frank hands him a bottle of water and makes him drink. The water's cold, and his teeth chatter but he drains the bottle.

“ Come on, get up.”

Frank has to half-pull him up. Henry's body doesn't seem to want to co-operate. His legs threaten to give way, and in the end, it's only Frank's arm looped around him that keeps him up. They make their way to the van like some strange quadruped. They're in some kind of underground car-park/garage, though it appears to be empty apart from Frank's vehicle.

“ Where are we?”

Frank glances at Henry. He seems a little surprised at the question, but then Henry supposes it's the first thing he's really said. “Abandoned Hydra base on the West Shore of Staten Island.”

“ Huh,” Henry takes that in. Daken and Bullseye had taken him more than an hours drive from Hell's Kitchen. “How'd you find me?”

Frank doesn't say anything for a moment, opening the passenger door for Henry. Taking the hint, Henry slides in, relaxing gratefully in the worn leather seat. Frank shuts the door and gets in the driver's side. He starts the car before he speaks: “They sent me the tape.”

Henry closes his eyes, leaning his head against the window. The vibrations of the engine shudder through him, jarring the thoughts from his brain. He lets them his mind empty, doesn't try to hold onto the thoughts and scraps of memory that flit through. “What did you do? Extract the geolocation from the video file?”

Frank huffs something not quite a laugh. “Does that sound like my approach?”

Henry lets his lips turn up a little, eyes still closed. “Not really. You follow some broken twigs or use some kind of tracker dog?”

“ I saw the Hydra logo stamped on one of the walls in the background. I know where most of their facilities in the New York area are or were, so it was just a matter of narrowing it down based on the other clues they left.”

“ Clues?”

Frank's quiet a minute. “They wanted me to find you.”

“ Why didn't they just kill me?”

“ Do you wish they had?”

Henry shakes his head. “No.”

“ Good.”

Henry opens his eyes, looks at Frank. It feels easier to watch Frank when he's driving, eyes on the road and not on Henry. His face looks the same as it always looks, impassive, set as stone. It's sunny outside, a beautiful day. “Did it bother you?” His own voice bothers him, the neediness, the raw emotion that he can't hide.

Frank's face stays still, his voice level. “Of course it did.”

Henry laughs, bitter, pulls his legs up onto the seat. “Sure.”

He spends the rest of the drive home staring out the window.

When they get back to the base they're currently staying at, Henry's infuriated to find his legs are still as uncooperative as before. They crumple beneath him as he gets out the van, and it's only Frank's quick reflexes that stop him from hitting the ground.

“ Get the fuck off me,” he hisses, suddenly furious.

Frank's mouth thins. “Don't be stupid.”

“ I said, get off.” His voice, stupid voice, cracks, and his defiance turns pathetic. He leans against the car, holding himself upright with grim determination.

Frank gives him a flat look, that tells him he's being stupid, but Henry gives him a look back. _ So what? _

Frank leaves him, going ahead to open unlock the doors to the derelict building. Henry forces himself to walk to the doors by himself. His legs are trembling and his vision is blurry. Frank takes one look at him, and grabs him, half-dragging him bodily inside and throwing him down on the cot bed in the corner.

Defiance spent, Henry goes to lie down, ready to be unconscious again.

“ Don't go to sleep yet. You need to eat.”

Henry huffs, but pushes himself unwillingly upright.

Frank's emptying some kind of can into a saucepan which he's heating on the camping stove. Henry watches him, exhausted. He closes his eyes, and a second later, Frank's shaking him awake.

“ Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes.

Frank doesn't say anything, just hands him a tray.

The soup's tomato, and Frank's found some saltine crackers to go with it.

Henry eats it slowly, feeling his stomach start to settle. Frank sits on the other end of the cot, a wary distance between them. Henry concentrates on eating, aware of Frank's gaze on him.

“ My kids used to eat this when they were sick,” Frank says.

Henry keeps ferrying the spoon between the bowl and his face, but he tilts his head a little in Frank's direction to show he's listening. It's not like Frank to bring up his family.

“ Used to be the only thing they could keep down when they had a stomach bug.”

Henry scrapes the last spoonful out of the bowl, then puts it down on the floor. He shifts to face Frank.

Frank doesn't turn to look at him, just stares down at his big, scarred hands. “I hated seeing them ill. They'd cry, and cry, and I'd feel so powerless.” He shuts his mouth, clasps his hands together.

Henry waits a moment, seeing if there's anything else he wants to say. He leans his back against the wall, trying to think of a response. He isn't really sure what he's supposed to say to that. It's obvious that the anecdote is linked to today, that Frank feels protective over him, perhaps even parental, but that seems so fucked up in this context. Henry'd been abducted, beaten and assaulted. He wasn't some crying kid with a tummy bug. “When I was sick as a kid, my dad would lock me in my room with a bucket and a water jug. He said he wasn't cleaning up if I barfed, and he wasn't going to get sick if I sneezed on him. One time I had a real bad fever. I thought I was gonna die. My mom tried to sneak me some medicine, but he caught her and beat the crap out of her for that. He said, if I died, it's because I was weak and deserved to die.”

His fists are clenched, his heart beating a little faster the way it always does when he talks about his childhood. Henry reaches for the glass of water Frank had left on the side and takes a sip.

“ Sounds like a piece of work,” Frank comments.

Henry laughs, brittle. “Yeah, for sure. But he taught me something, that I shouldn't to expect anyone else to look out for me.”

“ Bullshit,” Frank says, turning to look at Henry.

“ Is it?” Henry catches Frank's eyes. “Isn't that what you told me when we first met?”

“ I told you it was dangerous, I warned you -”

“ And I agreed,” Henry counters. “I know the risks. I knew that something like today could happen. I'm not a kid, Frank. You're not responsible for me.”

Frank smiles at that, unamused. “Sure, kid.”

Henry huffs, annoyed. “Fuck you, old man.”

Frank raises an eyebrow at that. “Very mature.”

Henry narrows his eyes, suddenly aware that he's been leaning forward during the conversation, getting up in Frank's face. He pulls back, face heating up. His fingers twist together in his lap, and fuck Daken for this, for turning him into this pathetic, nervous wreck. He forces his fingers into fists, clenches his jaw. He can’t afford to be weak, they haven’t got time for this, haven’t got time for him -

“Kid -”

“Not a kid,” Henry says through gritted teeth, then turns, grabs Frank by the collar and kisses him. Frank doesn’t kiss him back. It’s awful, like kissing stone, or something equally unresponsive. Henry jerks away suddenly, appalled by his own behaviour. “Fuck.” He tries to get to his feet, get away.

“Stop it.” Frank grabs him before he can fall off the bed, yanks him down. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Henry curls up, buries his face in the pillow, trying to smother his embarrassment. Of all the times for his weird hero-worship/inappropriate crush to surface, this takes the top spot. He draws in a painful breath. “Can we forget that just happened?”

“Already trying,” Frank says, voice a little strained. 

Fuck. Henry presses his face harder into the pillow. He’s made the Punisher embarrassed, that’s some sort of fucked-up achievement. 

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not the first to do this.”

Henry lifts his head and glares. “Yeah, surprisingly, knowing I’m not the first person to behave like an idiot isn’t actually making me feel much better.”

Frank, the bastard, actually looks amused. “It’s a common enough reaction to have after being in a life and death scenario. I rescued you. It’s normal to feel gratitude.”

Gratitude. Henry’s lip curls. Yeah, because that’s what he’s feeling. “Next time, I’ll just get you a thank you card.”

Frank huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. 

“So,” Henry says, with a morbid kind of curiosity, because he’s never known when to leave well enough alone, “you turn down every thank-you fuck?”

Frank’s face, which had relaxed a little, freezes up, which, really, is answer enough.

“Not that much of a gentleman, huh?”

Frank shrugs, not even having the decency to look ashamed. 

“So, what’s different?” Henry probes, and it’s like poking at a rotten tooth; it hurts, but he just can’t stop himself. “Because I’m a guy? My age?”

Frank lets out a long sigh, like he’s tired and doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Well, tough shit, because Henry’s nothing if not stubborn. Frank clearly realises that the quickest way to end this conversation is to just have it in the first place. “Bit of both.”

“Bit of both?” Henry asks, leaning forward into Frank’s personal space again. “What does that mean? Are you saying you’re not completely, one hundred percent uninterested in men?” His heart thumps painfully. He’s always kind of assumed that Frank’s straight, that his pining is completely pointless. Shit, the guy had a wife. 

Frank frowns, but doesn’t lean away or push Henry back. “I like women.”

“That’s not the same as not liking men,” Henry points out.

Frank’s eyes flick up to meet Henry’s briefly, then away. “No, it’s not.”

It’s not quite a confession, but enough of an admission that Henry’s pressing forward, closing the space between them to kiss Frank again. 

“Stop.” Frank murmurs, against Henry’s lips, one hand coming up to press gently but firmly against Henry’s shoulder, pushing them apart a few inches.

Henry groans, frustrated. “Why not?” He fists his hands in Franks tshirt, feeling the warm, muscled skin underneath. It’s an effort not to just lean back in. 

“I’m too old. We work together. You’re emotionally compromised right now, I’d be taking advantage.” Frank quirks an eyebrow. “I can think of more.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the first, I can be professional if you can be professional, and -” Henry stumbles for a second, “- look, maybe this is actually what I need right now.”

Frank frowns, like he doesn’t follow.

Henry looks down, twisting Frank’s shirt between his fingers. “You’re not him. You make me feel safe.”

“I can’t protect you,” Frank says, flatly, pushing Henry away. There’s the unspoken; _I can’t protect anyone_. “The reason you were targeted in the first place was to get to me.”

Henry scowls, digging his heels into the bed. “I know that. Shit, I know that. Daken and Bullseye delighted in pointing that out to me. You think I don’t know that I’m not safe? I’ve never been safe in my fucking life.” He’s dimly aware that he’s shaking again. “I know this is dangerous. Everything we do is dangerous! We’re taking on Norman-fucking-Osborn and his team of super-powered psychopaths, I fully expect to be killed at some point in the near future. I don’t mean safe like you can save me, I mean safe like you’re not going to hurt me, like maybe you care -” he almost chokes on the last word, it’s so humiliating, so _stupid -_

Frank pulls him forward onto his lap and finally kisses him back. 

Henry makes a small, hurt noise, and presses forward. Frank’s arms come around him, comforting and strong. He kisses Henry slowly and thoroughly, not rushing even when Henry gasps against him, needy and desperate. Henry breaks away to pull off his shirt, then tug at Frank’s until the older man obliges and pulls it over his head, leaving them both shirtless. Curiosity vies with Henry’s desire for more skin-to-skin contact, and curiosity wins out for the moment. He takes the time to map Frank’s body with his eyes, drinking in what he’s only let himself give cursory glances before. Frank’s solid with muscle, but it’s the scars that draw Henry’s attention. He runs a finger lightly over a big one, a jagged line that runs diagonally down Frank’s chest, across his right pectoral, narrowly missing the nipple. He wonders who gave Frank this scar.

When he looks up, Frank’s giving him his own once over, and Henry flushes, hunching over at the scrutiny. He’s not much to look at; lean, too thin, ribs showing, and his own collection of scars. Frank’s expression is unreadable as he takes in the cigarette scar burns, like silver quarters, that dot Henry’s stomach, the thin, almost invisible lines that crisscross all over his torso. Henry grits his teeth and bears it. Frank touches him, rubs his thumb along Henry’s ribs, cups the sharp jut of Henry’s hip with a large, calloused palm that bleeds warmth into Henry’s skin, and presses Henry down into the mattress, following him with his own body. 

Henry moans at the pressure, the weight of Frank on top of him. He should feel trapped; there’s no way he can throw Frank off from this position, but instead he feels good, grounded. He can feel Frank against him at every point, warm and solid. Frank lifts himself up a little, and Henry would protest this except it gives Frank the space to reach down between them and undo Henry’s fly and then his own. 

Henry’s already hard when Frank takes him in hand, and it’s almost too much, Frank’s palm is hot and dry, and it drags against the sensitive skin of Henry’s cock, catching on every callous. His hips buck, and his breath comes in short, sharp pants. He uses one hand to fist in Frank’s hair and pull his mouth back down onto Henry’s, and reaches down with his other hand to return the favour. 

Frank’s not all-the-way hard, but he soon gets there. He feels big, and thick, and Henry groans, imagining the feel and weight of that cock in his mouth, or inside him, stretching him out. Both fantasies will have to wait for another time, if there even is another time; Henry’s shaking with exhaustion and desire, he’s not going to last long.

Frank must sense that; he bats Henry’s hand away, then takes them both in hand. The feel of Frank’s cock against his own is amazing. They move together, and it’s awkward and uncoordinated, but somehow still the best thing Henry has ever felt. Henry presses his lips into the crook of Frank’s neck, hiding his face as he gasps. He thrusts up, against Frank, one last time, and comes. 

Frank’s pace doesn’t falter, and it’s almost painful, the slide of his cock against Henry’s oversensitive skin. He presses Henry down against the mattress with each powerful thrust, the cot bed shaking and squeaking beneath them. Henry bites his lip, imagines Frank fucking him with this force. The thought is dizzying, and he digs his blunt nails into Frank’s back, urging him on. A few more thrusts, and Frank comes, with a grunt. 

Carefully, Frank holds himself above Henry, breath coming fast, then carefully lies down onto his side, pulling Henry against him. They’re both sticky with sweat and other bodily fluids, but Henry can’t bring himself to care about that, or the fallout he’ll inevitably have to face from this in the morning. He can’t bring himself to stay conscious, for that matter. Exhaustion drags him under in seconds, the last thing he’s aware of is Frank’s arm slung around his waist.


End file.
